


Rot

by yeaka



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Ficlet, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: If only not a word of it ever happened.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Rot

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Picture of Dorian Gray or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He comes to in a slow stupor, at first unsure of what’s going on, because the knife that was clasped so tightly in his hands seems to have fallen away. He flexes his fingers but finds merely air between them, and he can see little specks of dust dancing in the sunlight beneath the window across the room, when he was certain the whole place was so caked in dust that he shouldn’t see anything else. It wasn’t exactly sunny—not bright and warm as he finds the new day. And he was in a terrible rage, but now his cheek’s cushioned against the soft upholstery of Basil Hallward’s old divan.

Dorian’s eyes widen. They feel heavy, crusted, and when he straightens up, he has to wipe the sleep out of them—he feels as though he’s been in a long slumber, trapped inside a century-long dream. His neck is stiff, his body tired, but he’s otherwise unharmed—the hands that fall before him are as untouched and _young_ as they’ve always been. Dorian doesn’t feel so young anymore. The ages weigh on him, heavy with mistakes and sin. 

“Dorian?” Basil calls, and that’s what really puts the lump in his throat, what turns it all around. His chest tightens, seizing up. He turns his head and sees the painter sitting there, half-hidden behind an easel, brush slowly lowering to a muddied palette. It’s all as it was so many years ago that Dorian can hardly remember. Yet it’s been no time at all, and it’s like the quiet birdsong beyond the window and the soothing smell of lilacs and lavender never left him. A pot of orchids sits by the window, exactly as lovely as they were the day Dorian brought them in. “Are you alright, my friend?”

Of course not. Dorian feels like he’ll never be alright again. But he takes stock of himself and finds he’s all in working order. _Basil’s_ in working order. He’s sitting there, looking quiet and peaceful, the exact antithesis of everything that Henry stood for, everything Dorian himself became. All at once, that boring serenity is glowing in a whole new light. It isn’t the dull grey tones that a certain book suggested all old and stuffy people are, but a wondrously _content_ thing of soothing and welcoming pastels. It was never Basil’s fault that Dorian felt differently. Guilt overwhelms him. Looking quite concerned, Basil sets his palette down on a nearby stool and rises, quickly crossing the study. 

Dorian’s aware he’s breathing much too fast. But it evens out with every step that Basil takes. The memory of that awful deed is fading, though he’s still left numb and feels the sweat beaded beneath his clothes. Then Basil is right in front of him, reaching out a hand, and laying it down on Dorian’s shoulder.

That simple touch is more _real_ than anything Dorian’s ever known. It has the instant effect of steadying him. It silences his screaming mind. “You must have had an awful dream at the end there, and for that I’m sorry—I’m afraid I must’ve become so lost in my work that I didn’t think to wake you.”

“Wake me?” Dorian croaks, and his throat’s parched, but not as ravaged as it should be from all the crying and screaming he must’ve done. “Did I...?”

“You nodded off—I do apologize, I know asking you to sit for me is a dreadfully tedious thing. I didn’t have the heart to wake you when I noticed, because at first, you seemed to be having quite pleasant dreams. Your smile was so beautiful that I felt compelled to continue.”

 _Continue_. Yes. The painting. He came in the morning with new flowers and a smile, happy to take tea and suffer the slow monotony of Basil’s painting. It seemed a small grievance for such a superb friendship—or a relationship, in any case, headed somewhere terrifying but entrancing. 

“Yes,” Dorian admits, holding onto the most terrifying parts as they fade from his mind like distant day-dreams. “I did have a rather... unpleasant... dream at the end.” With a deep breath, he adds, “But it is over now. I’m awake.”

“That you are,” Basil chuckles, giving Dorian’s shoulder a little squeeze that bolsters him. He can’t imagine how he ever forgot the courage in that touch. The light in Basil’s eyes is so wholly fond that it makes Dorian ache, until he realizations that he has no reason to be ashamed of it—he hasn’t sullied everything that Basil loves in this reality. It was all only a dream. And a nightmare. The details go, but the feeling of it lingers: a warning of what could come if his vanity overtakes him. 

“Well, now that you are awake—would you come and see how the picture’s shaping? I think I should finish it tomorrow, if you would do me the honour of returning, although I also have a friend briefly stopping by then—just in and out, I’m sure. But he is late more often than not, so I would just as rather count on you.”

Dorian is already standing. The blood rushes to his head, but then the dizziness passes, and he’s moving, walking forward with the clear surety of reality. He rounds on the easel, where the painting is indeed near-finished: he looks at his own portrait, unequivocally attractive, more handsome than any living man, surely more so than himself. Only the light in the eyes is missing, and perhaps a few other touches that Basil will add to give it _life_.

Dorian realizes then that what he’s looking at isn’t a mockery of himself, but himself through Basil’s eyes—a being of such purity that it could never truly exist, but it is a goal that he could strife for. 

“Well?” Basil asks, looking both sheepish and a little proud. “What do you think?”

Dorian can only say, “It’s lovely,” because he owes Basil that much.

“Only because the subject is so,” Basil agrees, because he’s always too humble with his own skills. 

Dorian stands firm: “It is truly great art, produced by a great artist, and I would be delighted to come by tomorrow to pose for you again.”

“Really?” Basil looks a tad surprised at that, though he was the one to ask. “I know you find it boring...”

“I will come. And I will do so again anytime you ask. You need only to ask, Basil, and I promise you I will be here for you for whatever it is.”

Basil looks awe-struck. His sudden gratitude and joy is palpable, though Dorian isn’t offering anything that Basil hasn’t offered him. Basil has always been good to him—the only one _truly_ good to him. And no matter who Dorian should meet tomorrow, even if it is that one nephew a certain singing partner’s mentioned, he won’t let that change. He feels as though he’s thoroughly learned his lesson, though it was only ever in his imagination. The imagination is quite enough. He feels as though he’s had enough of it for a lifetime, and through that, enough of debauchery and true ugliness.

The smile on Basil’s face is the true beauty of the morning. He softly asks, “In that case, I entreat you to have tea with me.”

And Dorian happily obliges.


End file.
